The Royal Life Guard; or, the flight of the royal family. Alexandre Dumas

the night rejoicing was to be on the site where the Bastile had stood.

      Eighty-three trees, one for each department of France, were stuck up to show the space occupied by the infamous states-prison, on whose foundation these trees of liberty were planted. Strings of lamps ran from tree to tree. In the midst rose a large pole, with a flag lettered: "Freedom!"

      Near the moats, in a grave left open on purpose were flung the old chains, fetters, instruments of torture found in it, and its clock with chained captives the supporters. The dungeons were left open and lighted ghastly, where so many tears and groans had been vainly expanded.

      Lastly, in the inmost courtyard, a ballroom had been set up and as the music pealed, the couples could be seen promenading. The prediction of Cagliostro was fulfilled that the Bastile should be a public strolling-ground.

      At one of the thousand tables set up around the Bastile, under the shadow of the trees outlining the site of the old fortress, two men were repairing their strength exhausted by the day's marching, and other military manœuvres. Before them was a huge sausage, a four-pound loaf, and two bottles of wine.

      "By all that is blue," said the younger, who wore the National Guards captain's uniform, "it is a fine thing to eat when you are hungry and drink when a-thirst." He paused. "But you do not seem to be hungry or thirsty, Father Billet."

      "I have had all I want, and only thirst for one thing——"

      "What is that?"

      "I will tell you Pitou, when the time for me to sit at my feast shall come."

      Pitou did not see the drift of the reply.

      Pitou was a lover of Catherine Billet, but he self-acknowledged that he could have no chance against the young nobleman who had captivated the rustic maid. When her father tried to shoot the gallant, he had—while not shielding her or her lover, helped her to conceal herself from Billet.

      It was not he, however, but Isidore who had brought the girl to Paris, after she had given birth to a boy. This occurred in the absence of Billet and Pitou, both of whom were ignorant of the removal.

      Pitou had housed her in a quiet corner, and he went to Paris without anything arising to cause him sadness.

      He had found Dr. Gilbert, to whom he had to report that with money he had given, Captain Pitou had equipped his Guards at Haramont in uniform which was the admiration of the county.

      The doctor gave him five-and-twenty more gold pieces to be applied to maintaining the company at its present state of efficiency.

      "While I am talking with Billet," said Gilbert, "who has much to tell me, would you not like to see Sebastian?"

      "I should think I do," answered the peasant, "but I did not like to ask your permission."

      After meditating a few instants, Gilbert wrote several words on a paper which he folded up like a letter and addressed to his son.

      "Take a hack and go find him," he said. "Probably from what I have written, he will want to pay a visit; take him thither and wait at the door. He may keep you an hour or so, but I know how obliging you are; you will not find the time hang heavy when you know you are doing me a kindness."

      "Do not bother about that," responded the honest fellow; "I never feel dull; besides, I will get in a supply of something to feed on and I will kill time by eating."

      "A good method," laughed Gilbert; "only you must not eat dry bread as a matter of health, but wash it down with good wine."

      "I will get a bottle, and some head cheese, too," replied Pitou.

      "Bravo!" exclaimed the physician.

      Pitou found Sebastian in the Louis-the-Great College, in the gardens. He was a winsome young man of eighteen, or less, with handsome chestnut curls enframing his melancholy and thoughtful face and blue eyes darting juvenile glances like a Spring sun.

      In him were combined the lofty aspirations of two aristocracies: that of the intellect, as embodied in his father, and of race, personified in Andrea Countess of Charny, who had become his mother while unconscious in a mesmeric sleep, induced by Balsamo-Cagliostro, but perceived by Gilbert, who had not in his wild passion for the beauty been able to shrink from profiting by the trance.

      It was to the countess's that Gilbert had suggested his son should go.

      On the way Pitou laid in the provisions to fill up time if he had to wait any great while in the hack for the youth to come out of his mother's.

      As the countess was at home, the janitor made no opposition to a well-dressed young gentleman entering.

      Five minutes after, while Pitou was slicing up his loaf and sausage and taking a pull at his wine, a footman came out to say:

      "Her ladyship, the countess of Charny, prays Captain Pitou to do her the honor to step inside instead of awaiting Master Sebastian in a hired conveyance."

      The Assembly had abolished titles but the servants of the titled had not yet obeyed.

      Pitou had to wipe his mouth, pack up in paper the uneaten comestibles, with a sigh, and follow the man in a maze. His astonishment doubled when he saw a lovely lady who held Sebastian in her arms and who said, as she put out her hand to the new-comer:

      "Captain Pitou, you give me such great and unhoped-for joy in bringing Sebastian to me that I wanted to thank you myself."

      Pitou stared, and stammered, but let the hand remain untaken.

      "Take and kiss the lady's hand," prompted Sebastian: "it is my mother."

      "Your mother? oh, Gemini!" exclaimed the peasant, while the other young man nodded.

      "Yes, his mother," said Andrea with her glance beaming with delight: "you bring him to me after nine months' parting, and then I had only seen him once before: in the hope you will again bring him, I wish to have no secrets from you, though it would be my ruin if revealed."

      Every time the heart and trust of our rural friend was appealed to, one might be sure that he would lose his hesitation and dismay.

      "Oh, my lady, be you easy, your secret is here," he responded, grasping her hand and kissing it, before laying his own with some dignity on his heart.

      "My son tells me, Captain Pitou, that you have not breakfasted," went on the countess; "pray step into the dining-room, and you can make up for lost time while I speak with my boy."

      Soon, on the board were arrayed two cutlets, a cold fowl, and a pot of preserves, near a bottle of Bordeaux, a fine Venice glass and a pile of china plates. But for all the elegance of the set out edibles, Pitou rather deplored the head cheese, bread and common wine in the cab.

      As he was attacking the chicken after having put away the cutlets, the door opened and a young gentleman appeared, meaning to cross the room. But as Pitou lifted his head, they both recognized each other, and uttered a simultaneous cry:

      "Viscount Charny!"

      "Ange Pitou!"

      The peasant sprang up; his heart was violently throbbing; the sight of the patrician aroused his most painful memories.

      Not only was this his rival but his successful rival and the man who had wronged Catherine Billet and caused her to lose her father's respect and her place at her mother's side in the farmhouse. Isidore only knew that Catherine was under obligations to this country lad; he had no idea of the latter's profound love for his mistress: love out of which Pitou drew his devotedness.

      Consequently he walked right up to the other, in whom, spite of the uniform, he only saw still the poacher and farm boy of Haramont.

      "Oh, you here, Pitou," said he: "delighted to meet you to thank you for all the services you have done us."

      "My lord viscount, I did all for Miss Catherine alone," returned the young man, in a firm voice though all his frame thrilled.